Rhetorical Analysis of Publication

Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venues Project

By Christina Mastroeni

The publication venue I chose is Defunct: A Literary Repository for the Ages.

1.   Defunct serves as an online publications based in Iowa City. Its interests lie in various forms of nonfiction such as literary, radio, video, and graphic. Defunct features works from Joe Wenderoth, Ander Monson, David Shields, Lia Purpura, Roxane Gay, Joe Bonomo, Dinty W. Moore, Elizabeth Kadetsky, Chris Offutt amongst others.

Defunct is listed as publishing one of the 100 Best Pieces of Journalism by the Atlantic. In addition to this prestigious honor, they also hold readings and events at the AWP Conferences. In regards to the type of essays accepted, under their “What We Want” section, it states, “Borne of the idea that strong, condensed nonfiction can resurrect the dead, salvage the past and, perhaps most importantly, quell the existential unease of nostalgia.” There seems to be a different theme for each issue of Defunct. The last three issues had themes consist of travel, change, and politics.

2. Defunct’s niche is in short essays. They do not accept essays over 1,000 words. Their audience seems to be people interested in the past and obsolete. Defunct does not carry news breaking articles. If they did, they would be what is called “a day late, and a dollar short.” I believe the journal is not only for writers but also readers. The magazine recently changed their Editor in Chief two issues prior to their most recent one. The new Editor in Chief is Amy Butcher who writes a Letter From the Editor in biannual issues. The majority of the authors in this magazine are of both male and female gender.

3. Analysis of Essays

• Subject matter: Defunct's pieces vary depending on the theme or mentioning in the letter from the editor. In their last issues, the overall theme seems to be travel. Delving into this theme, the stories talk about subjects such as coming of age, death, lost love, and understanding, among others.

• Voice/Tone: Many of the tones in Defunct’s pieces are intimate. They touch areas of people's lives that are uncomfortable to talk about; it does not seem like information people would share on a day-to-day basis. I also noticed that a lot of the readings talk of subjects that are defunct - no longer existing or functioning - in nature.

• Form: I noticed that the forms in Defunct seem to be a lot of narration. In many cases, it is the author who is showing his/her audience. I noticed that the authors use segmentation in both short and long paragraphs. It is used to distinguish scene changes, dialogue, and periods of time. As far as experimental writing goes, I see more of this with the nonliterary pieces. A lot of the literary work is easy to understand and did not appear too poetic in form (with a few exceptions).

• Artistry: In regards to artistry, if the scale is still 1 - 5, I would say a 1.5/2, since Defunct states that they admire concise reading with not many words. I thought the writing would be much more poetic. In reality, the works were very comprehensive. I did not find myself going to extremes to understand the pieces like reading the pieces multiple times and creating venn diagrams as an analysis tool.

• Length: Defunct takes a variety of different types of Creative Nonfiction (e.g. Literary, graphic, video). Their literary pieces are all short essays, none of which consisting of more than 1,000 words.

Defunct is open to various types of publications, from literary, to video, to graphics. In fact, in their form section under submissions they state, “If you got it, we want it.” The editors recommend "highly concise writing" for their publication.

The submissions should be based on theme of magazine issue. The theme for their next issue is the predictions of defunctness. Submissions for Defunct are acceptable only online through their Submishmash site. If an author submits one piece, it is asked that he/she does not submit an additional work until he/she has received word on the first.  Although the magazine create biannual issues, the only deadline listed on the submission page is for literary essays which is February 1, 2015. Currently there is no date available for multimedia essays, or featured artist pieces. Each submission is $3 for all categories.

Check it out here!

Short Essay #2

The weather is scorching at a high of 97. Thank goodness I wore a dry-fit, I think to myself as I join my team on the dry dirt road. Five minutes until go time. Part of me just wants it to be over, yet part of me is excited for the experience.

Swshh, Swshh, Swshh. I lean over the sink uneasy. It seems like these dirt stains may never come out. More soap, I say to myself. I reach over for more.

We run back and forth on the pavement until we are both breathless. "One more time," she says to me. I think to myself, do I really have this much energy?

I can't seem to get them out. The dirt looks like it's multiplying in my hands. I roll my eyes at my impatience.

I reach a rest area, drink some water and continue onward. "Duck!" Some screams from in front of me. I quickly fall to my belly and use my elbows to crawl underneath the sharp metal surface above me, dragging layers of dirt with me as I go.

I think about the dragging as I perform a second round of rinsing. Lovely brown smudge marks all over the front. I would need a miracle to bring cleanliness to this sink.

I muster up the breath for another round of running. This time the surface is more natural- a grassy spot. "On your mark. Get Set. Go. 1, 2, 3, GO!" She yells back at me as she takes a head start. "Cheater!" I yell back from behind. As we approach the end, we both fall on the ground.

I change from bathroom soap to detergent. This should do it, but I don't want to jinx myself. Aha! The dirt is slowly starting to disappear. Just as I get excited, I notice the grass stains...

Mile after mile, obstacle after obstacle, I become more exhausted by the minute. Covered in mud, dirt and grass, I climb down from the haystack pyramid, and give a promising look at the 40-foot swim that will soon be within my reach. Then only 4 more obstacles to go.

I wasn't prepared for this. I remember I watched those Tide commercials as a kid thinking, this is so stupid, everyone knows stains have to come out. How naive I once was. Pshh, Pshhh, Pshh, I scrub as hard as I can.

I run over to make sure she is alright. At first she is upset, but then she laughs. I am relieved she is well. “I know, I know,” she says. “cheaters eat pumpkins.” She then runs over to me covered in dirt for a tickling match. I try my best to hold back but manage to get out, "Come on little one, your dad will be waiting for you for dinner."

Swshh, swshh, swshh. I am almost done. Dirt is harder to remove than I thought! Although, I may never know if it is more difficult for children’s, or adult’s clothes...

Brainstorming for Short Essay #2

Alright, so I promised myself that I would try to get a little more artsy-fartsy with the second essay. Since we read a variety of short pieces of Creative Non Fiction, I wanted to experiment with two totally different stories and see which one would be either within my style of writing or one that I would be comfortable feeling uncomfortable editing. I know this may not make a lot of sense, but just stay with me.

So for this second piece I was thinking about discussing two different experiences that happened in my life that have some relationship with each other. I haven't decided which two events I will choose or what the similarity/similarities will be. I was just considering this as a route for my second piece. I think it will be challenging and fun. My only concern with this is, I'm not sure if I want to actually address what two stories I'm referring to. I'm thinking about painting a picture with words of what they are instead.

I don't want to do too much telling in this piece. I also thought about updating this when I finally figure out what the two stories that will coincide will be. Then I thought, no because if I'm not planning on portraying it in my essay, I want to see if my audience can figure it out. This I definitely out of my comfort zone, but I am willing to give it a try. We shall see...

Short Essay #1

Title Goes Here

I walk to the back room of our two family house in the suburbs. He sits in the beige recliner on the right side of the room near the door. He watches TV. Sports probably. The Yankees, Giants, or Rangers. As a take a closer glance at this man sitting in the recliner, I see a face that is redder than the usual high blood pressure glow that rests on his cheeks.

"Dad, what's wrong?" I ask. As I take a seat on the tan area couch in the back room.

"Christina, you have no idea how proud I am of you."

I smile, I laugh a little to ease the tension. I am known as the humble only child at 287 Smith Street. I look around the room to avoid eye contact. I admire the interior design my mother does to the house. The room is filled with tans and beiges galore. The ceiling to the floor is beautifully complimented. I zone back in. He continued blubbering.

"No, I mean it. I know I cry a lot but this time is special. You have made me so proud. You're going to college with some money, and you're playing volleyball. I never got the chance to do these things. But,"  he sniffled. "I'm so glad you do. Because if anyone deserves it, after all you've been through, it's you."

I still smile. My eyes began to well up with tears. They didn't trickle down like his. I recall times when I make fun of my father for being a cry baby. Now I want to cry with him.

"You're gonna go places, kid. And you have so many people up there looking out for you, Cutie Pie."

His voice is sincere, shaky but sincere. I travel over to the recliner and lean over to give him a big hug. My cheek knocked his thin, titanium framed glasses. I felt his somewhat fragile frame against mine during our hug. This man has his own hell to deal with, but he chooses to focus on mine.

"Thank you," I whispered in his ear.

I took a step back to look at a proud father. He wore his team gear for the teams he watches on TV, but on his head, rests a powder blue Holy Family Tigers baseball cap. I grinned as I sat back on the couch and asked, "So, who's winning?"

Brainstorming for Short Essay

I am having trouble coming up with an idea to write about. I think I know why. These short pieces of Creative Nonfiction all seem great in their own way. They're loaded with information that pulls you in. Some of them were more artistically done that I thought!

I am a hesitant to choose a specific topic, for I fear that it won't work out. I have considered writing about my relationship with my dog, a special moment with my father, the first time I fainted. Those are only a few. I tried to think of stories that I could get the point across easily with short sentences. I also tried to think of situations where there is a lot of action> this way I wouldn't feel the need to add in unnecessary details.

Final Long CNF Piece

Mind Your Own Beeswax

            The art of storytelling is huge in the Mastroeni household. Most families have their own problems, but we like to think of ours as legendary. There are many times when friends and distant relatives tell us we should “have camera in the house,” or that “this should be reality television.” Well, I am not the attorney who freed O.J. from trial, nor do my parents own a famous hotel chain. That being said, we manage to get our points across through the art of storytelling.

            There are many key aspects of telling a good story in my opinion. I have to be able to know my audience and captivate them. Depending on who I am speaking to, certain groups of people find certain things funny. A storyteller almost has to develop a bond with their audience (3 people or 3000 people), and find out what attracts them. This person also has to be flexible. People don’t always laugh at the punchlines. The storyteller must be flexible so that somehow, someway the story gets told.  

            I think I talk a big game. There is one person in the family that has this storytelling trait down pat… and it’s not me. It’s Mama Mastroeni. There is something about the way she tells a story that everyone is so invested in what she has to say. She has them gripping on to every word from beginning to end. Even stories I hear 10 times or more are still like new. I think I enjoy the way she tells stories more than the stories themselves. This is a gift that fascinates me.

            There is one that we write off as a family classic. This story has such an impact on me. I do not remember how old I was when I first heard “The Bee Story.” Although, we are not really sure it they were bees. We just know they were bee-like creatures. For the sake of storytelling, we will call them bees. I just know I grew up with it. This story always comes up for family gatherings or parties. Since it happened to my mother, and she enjoys making people laugh, she tells it whenever she is given the opportunity.

            I remember one specific time laughing myself into a headache. We are at the fine arts and crafts festival in Brookdale Park, Bloomfield, NJ. I walk with my mother down the cement path that is tailored with white tents covering magnificent pieces of handmade art. As we walk along, we meet with my friend and her mother who tell us to make a day out of it. We are blessed with a beautiful day. I look at my phone, 79 degrees. The sun is shining through the trees that block enough of the sun that I do not have to put sunglasses on. The four of us walk up and down the fair, stopping as we please. There is a stand next to a tent that sells handmade belt buckles. My mother, a connoisseur of accessories, stops and mentions that we have to take a look. As we admire the hand crafted buckles, a small, yellow jacket arises from underneath one of the buckles. I watch as my mother screams loud enough for all of not only Bloomfield, but also all of the greater Essex County area to hear. She tries to escape from the bee, and I watch in laughter. My friend and her mother had seen this side of her before. I wait with them as she settles down.

            We move off to a safe side of the park. This area is shadier and there is not a bee in sight. We all stand in the shade and my mom begins to retell her horror story of why she (and now everyone else after they hear this story) hates bees.

            “You know why I hate them, don’t you?” She asks all of us. I hear this story all the time but I could not help but wonder if my friend and her mom have ever heard it.

            “I was about five years old when it happened. My grandfather built a house in the outskirts of Pennsylvania. It was a huge six-bedroom home with a wrap-around, screened-in porch. It was white with green trimming, and outside there were wooden steps lined with bushes. We always saw bees in there. Anyway, they loved hunting and invited their friends and families to go with him. My father had about two hundred acres of land out there. As kids, we had no concept of this… until we walked to the neighbor’s house with my father’s friend Mr. Capata.”

I always appreciate this story told by my mother. Her delivery is something I try to imitate when telling her stories. It is probably so on point because she has heard this story from her parents so many times as she grew up. Five is a young age to remember such a story with great detail. I think she may have had some help over the years. Still, I remember as a kid, I would tell people to just have my mom tell them to understand how funny it is. Maybe it is a skill that I will develop with time.

            “My father wanted us to head over to the neighbor’s house, because my father wanted to talk to him about something… I can’t remember what exactly. So we walked over these two acres of land and some of it was in the woods. As we went on - you know my brother Joey? Oh God, what an instigator. There was a big log in the middle of our path. He jumped over it and cleared it.”

            My Uncle Joey is one of my mother’s older brothers. He pretty much has a personality of his own. Truly a one of a kind fellow. By one of a kind, I mean he has all of the qualities and talents that make even the most patient of people want to rip their hair out.

            “So Joey, the pain that he was, turned to me and said, ‘Debbie, I bet you can’t do what I just did.’ I go, ‘shut up Joey, sure I can.’ We went back and forth until my father turned around to tell us to ‘shut the hell up.’ Then, he told me to do it if I thought I could. I called him a haunt, and then he stuck his tongue out at me.”

            Now comes the part in the story where she described herself in this situation, I can read her like a book. I know (and still hang on) every word. I laugh at all the right parts and cringe when one should. I watch my friend and her mother’s initial reactions: the surprise, the suspense filled looks, the laughter. I have to admit, my mom is pretty good.

            “So the difference between Joey and I was that he was 9. Four years does a lot to a kid, you know? We were both chunky as kids, but he was taller and definitely more athletic. I basically just told him I could do it to shut him up. I should have known that he would try to make me. I was short and my legs were [and still are] like tree trunks. I dreaded going over this log. But, I sucked it up; I walked back to give myself a running start, held my breath, took off, and cleared it!”

            Here it comes, the climax of the story. The reason everyone bursts into laughter. It’s true, I laugh and poke fun, because it is a comical story. But, somewhere deep down, I am a slave to “The Bee Story.” Who am I? An active listener? A note taker for my mom? An audience member? I cannot help but indulge myself in every word from this moment on…

            “...yeah, cleared it and landed right into a bush on the other side of the friggin’ log! I really hurt my back because I fell right on it. Seconds later, I realized that I landed in a bush that had a bee’s nest in it! I kid you not, hundreds of them swarmed me. They bit me, they stung me all over my body. I could not get them away. I swatted and swatted until I couldn’t feel my arms anymore from all the stings. My father turned around and screamed, ‘Debbie, don’t move!’ I screamed back, bees flying in my mouth, ‘Daddy, whyyyyy?!’ He and my brother swatted and tried to direct their attention somewhere else. Mr. Capata was nowhere to be found. But, what the hell? I was five. How was I supposed to know that?! I figured that he was trying to kill me off. I was the youngest of four so that made more sense than standing still to be friggin’ bee food!”

            PFFFFT. That’s all I can get out at this point. Thankfully, the way my mother tells this part of the story, she makes it sound more hysterical than gruesome. I can’t help but burst into laughter when she mimics herself with the “Daddy, whyyy?!” comment. This is the part where I play a role in the art of storytelling. Usually at this point the baton is passed to me for that comment. I am able to mimic her in a silly way. It’s not a big role, but it’s one step closer to being a suitable storyteller. I’ll take it.

            “The bees finally head out and we walked back to the house. I think I said ‘Ow’ with every step I took. My father and Joey looked back at me, stung from head to toe, and they snickered towards each other. When we finally got back to the house, my mother answered the door. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ My father told her what happened. We spent the rest of the afternoon picking stingers out from all over me...such joyful memories.”

         I can imagine the hatred my mother has for bees. She explains it so specifically. It’s a comedic horror story. It’s filed with everything I think a good story should be. My favorite part about this story is that she tells this traumatic experience through comedy. I think that says a lot about her as a person. She always says laughter is the best medicine… maybe not the best medicine at the time of the incident, but certainly for coping!

            “We finally got all of the stingers out of me and we counted them; thirty-six. They stung me thirty-six times. That’s why I’m a little on the heavier side, you know? I’m still swollen from the bites. Anyway, I went into the living room closet to find the bocce ball set to play with. I opened it and saw the balls and thought that this would be something nice for me to do to calm my nerves. I loved bocce ball as a kid, and my oldest brother Bobby came to the house and told me to set everything up downstairs. He said to set up the game and that he’d come down soon. All of a sudden, as I put the first ball down on the floor, I got this annoying itch behind my ear. I took two fingers on my right hand to scratch it and two dead bees fell out from my hair behind my ear. I let out a scream like an axe murderer chased me. It was like the final straw; just when I thought I got rid of the bastards, too! My brother Bobby ran downstairs when he heard my scream to make sure I was alright. After all these years, that scream is one of the few family events he remembered.”

            That is when I cringe. The dead bee part gets me every time. Perhaps part of the reason she is so great at telling this story is because it is personal experience. Maybe it’s because she’s heard it so many times. As we walk through the rest of the park, I consider stories about me that I could tell. I come to the conclusion that I need to develop my own art of storytelling and my own voice. I’d use hers, but that’s none of my beeswax.

Long Draft #2 Revisions

Oy. I think that about sums up how I am going to edit this piece. Oy.

I feel the need to put in writing that my full intention of this story was to do just that: put it in writing. This is a story I tell over and over with my friends. It is a story that sticks with me. It left an impression on me. It taught me a lesson (a silly lesson, but a lesson nonetheless). I wanted an avenue to be able to tell this story. When we did the brainstorming activities, this story popped in my head a few times. I tried to forget about it. No Christina that's stupid, think of something else... no one will find it amusing, shut up. As you can see, this story would not be silenced.

That being said, there are quite a few things I need to consider for this piece. One of them is the characters. I go into depth with some of them, and don't describe other too well. For example, on of my friends (who I was the closest to) I provided with the most detail. Now that I look back on it, since I was the observer, I should have really put more description into the women I saw (instead of labeling them). The thing is, I do remember more information, but it wasn't until after my conference that I thought maybe more detail would make things a little easier for the reader's sake.

Another part I'd like to change is maybe to zero in on one specific audience. I had a few ideas of who I wanted my audience to be, and it seems like I tried to adjust to all of them. These audiences don't necessarily have many things in common. I think for the sake of this story I should adjust my theme around one audience so the reader won't be confused.

Lastly (and I imagine to be most important), I feel as though I should state that this was just my experience traveling through Philadelphia. Not everyone who travels through this city will have the same experience I did In fact, I have been in the city countless times, and I have only had this experience once. I don't want my readers to feel unwelcome to this area. I just want to tell my story.

These seem to be the parts I think would benefit my story the most. Like I said, for me it was an accomplishment to be able to put it on paper...er- or blog. However, I really like to get my writing right. Perhaps this is a story to edit later in life, maybe when my point of view is a little different...

Driving Me Crazy

I notice that there is a stigma, a bias when it comes to friends. I myself have a difficult time turning people down. It is almost impossible for me to say no to a friend. I really only use the ability to say no if a friend is about to make an immoral decision. No matter how crazy they make me, I do whatever I can to help and I love doing it. I can remember one evening in specific where if I didn’t love my friends, I would have absolutely lost all of my marbles.

I check my watch. 11:30 on the dot. “This party is awful. Are you having any fun?” My future roommate Pauline is a country girl. Needless to say, Philadelphia house parties are not her forté. It really is a shame, because I was so proud of her outfit choice (with a little guidance from me): a charcoal gray short sleeve shirt that fell just above the hips with a long beaded necklace and jeans. “Simple, yet chic,” I explained as we got ready at my place. She finally left the cowboy boots at home…

I started my 1997 Nissan Altima and off we went. “Don’t forget, we have to pick up Jess. She’s at the apartment.” Jess is Pauline’s cousin and roommate. She is also a country bumpkin, though I love her still the same. I pull up to the apartment and tap on my horn twice. Jess runs out and thanks me for picking her up. I say anything for friends. On the way over, they offer to pay for the gas. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “You got the next time.”

When we arrive on their street, I quickly take the first parking spot available. We walk in and the house is humid with body heat; clearly there are entirely too many people in here. I remember thinking to myself, this is disgusting. I look over at my bumpkins and they are not enjoying the crowd either. Still, it is nice to be invited; we decide to suck it up.

We make our way through the crowd, and find our friend Olivia (we usually call her Liv). Liv is one of the girls who lives in this house and responsible for the party. We all say hello, “Thanks for inviting us, Liv!” I find myself shouting over some kind of awful music. “No problem, thanks for coming! I love hanging out with you guys!”

It is not 30 minutes later, and I find the four of us in the same spot, talking about the same topics. I take a look around and everyone else is having the time of their life. I couldn’t put my finger on it but something just didn’t seem….fun. Pauline turns to me and says, “Is it me, or is this party terrible?” I laugh and tell her I think the same thing.

I am the closest to Liv personally, so I decide to say something to her. “Hey, party sucks.” I can see the slight shock of horror on both Jess’s and Pauline’s faces. They are never the best at masking their emotions. I laugh internally as I watch both of their jaws drop the lowest I’ve ever seen. That’s a new record, personal best! I think to myself. “Steen (Stina is my nickname, but for some reason people feel the need to shorten it further.), I’m thinking the same thing! I’m sorry you ladies aren’t having fun!” I look at the and then look back at Liv, “Screw it. We haven’t had anything to drink. Wanna take a trip into Center City?” They now have switched their emotional billboards from horror to excitement. “What? Like, right now?” she responds confused. “Well yeah, screw this if we’re not gonna have fun. Your roommates seem to be having fun. Just tell them we’re going out and that you’ll help them clean up or something tomorrow morning before class.” I am proud of this response. For some odd reason I feel tonight it is my duty to be the keeper of fun. “Alright, they were cool with it, let’s go!” Liv responds as she grabs a light jacket.

We walk over to the car and I remember thinking wow, what a beautiful night to go walk around the city! As we get in the car Pauline has this bright idea, “Let’s try to find our own way to Center City. No GPS this time.” As she tucks the GPS in my glove compartment, I can’t help but think to myself that this is a terrible idea. I am a directionally challenged individual. Needless to say I don’t lick my finger, point it to the sky, and decide that north is the proper direction.

Liv and Jess are quiet in the back. Pauline can tell that they are a little uneasy about the idea too. “It’ll be fun. Besides, someone told me that if you take Frankford all the way down it will put you in center city.” This sounded easy so I figured, what the hell? We begin what I now refer to as the ride to hell.

For those of you who are familiar with the Philadelphia area, we begin our journey in Northeast Philadelphia, a more suburban area. As we traveled farther and farther down Frankford, we realize we aren’t in Kansas anymore. The roads grow narrower. There are many abandoned buildings, but the streets are full of people. I begin to frighten, and then notice I am the driver. Holy crap! I can’t panic. If I panic, everyone panics. I have to stay calm for their sake. So I try to make light of the situation. “Well this doesn’t look much like the Center City I know. Pauline, how much further until we at least reach South Street?” Silence. “Pauline?” Still no answer. I don’t want to take my eyes off the road for safety reasons. I hear snickering and I remember that Pauline is a nervous laughter. Something tells me this is only going to get worse. “I didn’t really plan that far ahead, but I know there is a light at the end of the tunnel!” She sounds pleased with her response, while the rest of us seemed more pleased with the silence before it. I mumble under my breath, only loud enough for me to hear, “You’re lucky I like you…”

Naturally, we hit just about every red light on the road. All of a sudden, I realize my windows are halfway down in the back. “Liv, Jess, what are you doing?! Put those things up!” “It’s hot,” Liv replies. “Don’t waste your gas with the AC. Here Steen, I’ll roll them almost all the way.” “Yeah, just to get a breeze back here,” Jess chimes in.

The next red light I stop the car and we watch prostitutes on one of the side streets waltzing around. “What?!” I hear from behind me. “That definitely just happened!” Liv is beside herself. She comprehends what we just witnessed, “I mean I’ve seen ‘em on TV before, but like never in front of my face like that.” “Thanks Captain Obvious, now keep your voice down before they hear you!” Stay calm, Steen. You can do this. Green Light. Thank God.

The second red light is worse than the first. This time we mistake women for prostitutes. “Oh look, Liv.” Jess nudges her elbow. “I think I’ve found some more.” “What is right with the world? They definitely look like hookers!” Liv decides to make her claim a little louder this time (probably without realization). Loud enough for the women/prostitutes/hookers to hear. The windows are still open. I’m still stuck at a red light. They hear Liv, and start walking walking closer towards us from the other side of the street. I sigh, “Alright, I’m running this light. Pauline, am I clear?” “Yeah, you’re fine.” Escaped just in time. I don’t know if anything could’ve happened but I’m not about to take that chance for my friends (and myself too).

I hit one more red light. I escape the last one. I don’t want to take any chances if there are cops around… as if the cops in this area don’t have bigger problems than four small girls running red lights. I digress. As we impatiently wait for the light to change from ruby red to emerald green, we notice the street signs in the intersection. Liv’s response is always my favorite, “G Street. Like, that’s it? G Street. Wow, we’re fucked.” A little comic relief breaks the tension, but not for long. An older man clearly under the influence walks up and passes our car. Just as he walks by, we sees that we are collectively staring at him. He began to come over to my poor 1997 Nissan Altima that, damn it, can’t handle this kind of hysteria. Thankfully the doors are locked. Then, I begin what I think, if recorded, may have been the world record for the largest span of running red lights in a row.

Alas, the light at the end of the tunnel: South Street. My friends and I are safe. We finish our journey into Center City around 2 am. I park the car on a sidestreet, and we walk to Dunkin Donuts. “Guys, if I have to drive back I’m definitely going to need coffee.” They agreed to stop in and grab some too.

We walked around the city and I said, “Get in the car, I have an idea.” I knew the backways of the Philadelphia Art Museum. I drove around the back of the building, and parked the car at the top of the art museum steps. We sat on the steps and enjoyed the view. Pauline sipped her hot chocolate and said, “Worth it?” “Worth it,” Liv replied. Jess and I nodded in agreement. I smiled and joking said, “You know, I know this was my idea, but, you’re all really lucky I’m the type of person who would do anything for you jerks.” They laughed and agreed that it was my idea. I wish they agreed about the jerks part too. “And another thing, we’re using the GPS on the way home!” We all burst into laughter. I think to myself, sure, I drive them around and they drive me crazy!

Brainstorming for Long Draft #2

Alright, it's about that time: I need to begin my brainstorming for draft numero due (number two). I thought about a few ideas for a while. Although each of the stories I want to write about seems fairly different, they all have one weird quality in common: none of them are really all that funny.

As I mentioned in my last CNF piece, I really enjoy the art of storytelling. It's a quality I truly value. However, I;m not sure if it's a quality I have entirely under my belt. Most of the time, it's easier for me to get my point (and humor) across through writing. I can easily backspace and delete information that is repetitive. There are no awkward pauses unless I purposely insert them. I have full control over my voice and what I want to say. I think my problem is a combination of my delivery and my audience. 

So how does this connect with my idea for draft number two? All of those stories were "You  Had to Be There" stories (YHTBTS). No one wants to tell a YHTBTS. I want to combine this idea with the idea that the easiest way insert humor is by making fun of yourself. So the end result would be me narrating my own YHTBTS. 

I understand that this is definitely a very broad idea. I am going back and forth between a few stories. I want to pick one story and remember my audience, the setting, the background info, and tell that story. Then I'd like to add my own humor and reaction to my audience and how the story was received. I think there's a lesson to be learned somewhere in here. I'll have more kinks worked out for Wednesday!

First Draft Revisions

It appears that I am going through a bit of an identity crisis when it comes to my first long draft. I tried to make the focus of my piece about my hatred towards bees. I focus on committing to that theme and reiterated it many times. However, my writing displays a secret language under its text. It appears that my real focus was not so much about hating bees, but about the passion of storytelling.

Like most families, storytelling is a huge part of mine. We love to have reunions just to relive the memories we all experience together (and of course catch up on any other stories worth sharing). It is an art in my family to know and have the talent of storytelling. In my opinion, not many people do it as well as my mom. I may be a little bias, but she's pretty good. I think my new focus will be to make the art of storytelling my new theme in this piece.

There are a few specifics I should work on as well. One for example are the types of bees I speak about. I can see how a reader may be confused because I talk about bees, yellow jackets, while also mentioning characteristics of hornet, wasps, etc. It may seem so microscopic, but I think this will be a way to pull my story tighter together, and clean it up. Another example is my explanation of the nest in the bush. Once I determine the types of bees/flying insects I am referring to, this will be a bit easier to fall into place.

Overall I am happy about my corrections and excited to edit this piece. Although, I will have to see what my other long draft has in store for me. If I am not as satisfied with the second draft, I am committed to editing this one.

First Draft

Mind Your Own Beeswax

I hate bees. I always have and I think I always will. I hate their black and yellow color scheme. I dislike their beady dark eyes. I loathe the sound their wings make. Most of all, I despise their landing techniques. They hover over me like they want to play with my fears and emotions. They use this sort of I’m-not-touching-you tactic. All of it makes me queasy. All of it makes me angry. All of it makes me hate them. I’ll top it all off with this surprising factor: I have never been stung before.

I have never even been bit by a bee. I’ve seen others get bit and stung before. I always watch from distance; I never get too close. I do not think I need to be stung by a bee to hate them. I hear enough horror stories about how awful those things can be.

The other aspect of it, is I do not even know if I am allergic to bees. Normally, people get these things tested, but not me. My parents never found this information useful. To be honest, I think they had their doubts. Why spend the money if we are 99.9% sure that we are right? I figure, I will cross that bridge when I get to it.

The hatred goes back as far as I can remember. There is an old stigma that parents can place their fears and opinions into their children. That is precisely what happened. I do not remember how old I was when I first heard “The Bee Story.” I just know I grew up with it. This story always comes up for family gatherings or parties. Since it happened to my mother, and she enjoys making people laugh, she tells it whenever she is given the opportunity.

I remember one specific time laughing myself into a headache. We are at the fine arts and crafts festival in Brookdale Park, Bloomfield, NJ. I walk with my mother down the cement path that is tailored with white tents covering magnificent pieces of handmade art. As we walk along, we meet with my friend and her mother who tell us to make a day out of it. We are blessed with a beautiful day. I look at my phone, 79 degrees. The sun is shining through the trees that block enough of the sun that I do not have to put sunglasses on. The four of us walk up and down the fair, stopping as we please. There is a stand next to a tent that sells handmade belt buckles. My mother, a connoisseur of accessories, stops and mentions that we have to take a look. As we admire the hand crafted buckles, a small, yellow jacket arises from underneath one of the buckles. I watch as my mother screams loud enough for all of not only Bloomfield, but also all of the greater Essex County area to hear. She tries to escape from the bee, and I watch in laughter. My friend and her mother had seen this side of her before. I wait with them as she settles down.

We move off to a safe side of the park. This area is shadier and there is not a bee in sight. We all stand in the shade and my mom begins to retell her horror story. The story why I hate bees.

“You know why I hate them, don’t you?” She asks all of us. I hear this story all the time but I could not help but wonder if my friend and her mom have ever heard it.

“I was about five years old when it happened. My grandfather built a house in the outskirts of Pennsylvania. It was a huge six-bedroom home with a wrap-around, screened-in porch. It was white with green trimming, and outside there were wooden steps lined with bushes. We always saw bees in there. Anyway, they loved hunting and invited their friends and families to go with him. My father had about two hundred acres of land out there. As kids, we had no concept of this… until we walked to the neighbor’s house with my father’s friend Mr. Capata.”

I appreciate a good story, especially when it is told by my mother. Her delivery is something I try to imitate when telling her stories. I remember as a kid, I would tell people to just have my mom tell them to understand how funny it is. Maybe it is a skill that I will develop with time. Still, my hatred for bees at this moment is greater than my dreams of being a good storyteller.

“My father wanted us to head over to the neighbors house, because my father wanted to talk to him about something… I can’t remember what exactly. So we walked over these two acres of land and some of it was in the woods. As we went on- you know my brother Joey? Oh God, what an instigator. There was a big log in the middle of our path. He jumped over it and cleared it.”

My Uncle Joey is one of my mother’s older brothers. He pretty much has a personality of his own. Truly a one of a kind fellow. By one of a kind, I mean he has all of the qualities and talents that make even the most patient of people want to rip their hair out. As many pranks as my Uncle Joey plays on me, I still like him more than bees.

“So Joey, the pain that he was, turned to me and said, ‘Debbie, I bet you can’t do what I just did.’ I go, ‘shut up Joey, sure I can.’ We went back and forth until my father turned around to tell us to ‘shut the hell up.’ Then, he told me to do it if I thought I could. I called him a haunt, and then he stuck his tongue out at me.”

Now comes the part in the story where she described herself in this situation, I can read her like a book. I know (and still hang on) every word. I laugh at all the right parts and cringe when one should. I know I have let this story become a part of who I am. It is embedded in my brain… every single time I see a bee.

“So the difference between Joey and I was that he was 9. Four years does a lot to a kid, you know? We were both chunky as kids, but he was taller and definitely more athletic. I basically just told him I could do it to shut him up. I should have known that he would try to make me. I was short and my legs were [and still are] like tree trunks. I dreaded going over this log. But, I sucked it up; I walked back to give myself a running start, held my breath, took off, and cleared it!”

Here it comes, the climax of the story. The awful reason why I hate bees. The fear that this story has over me is ridiculous. It’s true, I laugh and poke fun, because it is a comical story. But, somewhere deep down, I am a slave to “The Bee Story.” Who am I? An active listener? A notetaker for my mom? An audience member? I cannot help but indulge myself in every word from this moment on…

“...yeah, cleared it and landed right into a bush on the other side of the friggin’ log! I really hurt my back because I fell right on it. Seconds later, I realized that I landed in a bush that had a bee’s nest in it! I kid you not, hundreds of them swarmed me. They bit me, they stung me all over my body. I could not get them away. I swatted and swatted until I couldn’t feel my arms anymore from all the stings. My father turned around and screamed, ‘Debbie, don’t move!’ I screamed back, bees flying in my mouth, ‘Daddy, whyyyyy?!’ He and my brother swatted and tried to direct their attention somewhere else. Mr. Capata was nowhere to be found. But, what the hell? I was five. How was I supposed to know that?! I figured that he was trying to kill me off. I was the youngest of four so that made more sense than standing still to be friggin’ bee food!”

PFFFFT. That’s all I can get out at this point. Thankfully, the way my mother tells this part of the story, she make it sound more hysterical than gruesome. I can’t help but burst into laughter when she mimics herself with the “Daddy, whyyy?!” comment. Laughter has always helped me calm down my hatred. I don’t even hate that many things. I’m a really nice person. I’m nice to everyone… except bees.

“The bees finally head out and we walked back to the house. I think i said ‘Ow’ with every step I took. My father and Joey looked back at me stung from head to toe and they snickered towards each other. When we finally got back to the house, my mother answered the door. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ My father told her what happened. We spent the rest of the afternoon picking stingers out from all over me...such joyful memories.”

         I can imagine the hatred my mother has for bees. I can see why she is so afraid. I understand why she would rather knock over an entire picnic table to escape the wrath of a yellow jacket (which has been done before). I think I would do the same.

“We finally got all of the stingers out of me and we counted them; thirty-six. They stung me thirty-six times. That’s why I’m a little on the heavier side, you know? I’m still swollen from the bites. Anyway, I went into the living room closet to find the bocce ball set to play with. I opened it and saw the balls and thought that this would be something nice for me to do to calm my nerves. I loved bocce ball as a kid, and my oldest brother Bobby came to the house and told me to set everything up downstairs. He said to set up the game and that he’d come down soon. All of a sudden, as I put the first ball down on the floor, I got this annoying itch behind my ear. I took two fingers on my right hand to scratch it and two dead bees fell out from my hair behind my ear. I let out a scream like an axe murderer chased me. It was like the final straw; just when I thought I got rid of the bastards, too! My brother Bobby ran downstairs when he heard my scream to make sure I was alright. After all these years, that scream is one of the few family events he remembered.”

That is when I cringe. The dead bee part gets me every time. I can only show sympathy for my mother when she tells this story. To this day, when a bee comes near her, I always say, from a distance of course, “Daddy whyyy?!” If I were her, I would hate them...but that’s none of my beeswax. We continue to walk through the rest of the park. I pray those black and yellow pest will leave us alone.